


Booty Calls

by Jennytheshipper



Series: Mating Habits of the Emperor Penguin [2]
Category: Wolf Hall - All Media Types, Wolf Hall Series - Hilary Mantel
Genre: Immigration, M/M, Modern AU, deportation, more dreaded topicality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: It was after midnight. It could only be one thing.





	

Rafe came into his office and pointed to Tom’s leftover sandwich. “You gonna finish that?”

“Help yourself.”

“It’s not for me. It’s for dog boy.”

“Dog boy?” He looked up. Rafe was entirely serious.

“You must have seen him. Sleeps in the park. Someone left a dog bowl near the benches once. People put food and money in it for him.”

“That’s horrible.” 

“To give him food and money?”

“No. To treat a human being like an animal,” Tom said and went back to the brief he was working on.

“Just the same, can I have the sandwich?”

“Go ahead. Shut the door on your way out.”

The next morning, Tom cut across the park on the way in from his garage. He saw the boy, curled up next to the bowl. Tom approached quietly, looking down at the boy, watching him sleep. The boy started awake and looked up at him with wide, brown eyes.

“It’s alright. Just wondering if you’d had breakfast?”

The boy looked like he didn’t quite understand. “Breakfast? Eat?” Tom made an eating motion with his hands. The boy nodded. He was wearing a Paris Saint-Germain jersey under his jacket. On a hunch, Tom said, “Suivez moi?” The boy looked surprised, but nodded comprehending. “There’s a cafe open. It’s a public place,” he continued in French. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want…” The boy stood up, yawning. He was tall with broad shoulders, towering over Tom as they walked down the street together.

“How old are you, lad?”

“Eighteen,” the boy shot back automatically. He had a thick accent, Moroccan-French if Tom wasn’t mistaken. 

“You look younger.”

“Eighteen,” the boy stated firmly.

“It’s alright. I’m no cop.” 

They arrived at the cafe. Tom ordered his usual bacon sandwich. 

“What’ll you have?”

“Chocolate croissant,” the boy said in English. “Two. And coffee.”

“You heard the lad,” he said to the woman who ran the cafe. She gave him a look but handed over the croissants and coffee. Tom paid her and they took a table in the back.

“How long have you been in England?” Tom said. 

“Six months.”

“What’s your name?”

“Christophe”

“I’m Tom, Christophe.” The boy stopped shoving croissant in his mouth long enough to nod.

“Where are you from?”

“Paris.”

“Parents?”

He shook his head.

“Your accent is...Where are you from, originally?”

“What’s this ‘originally’ shit? You wanna know where my dad’s from?”

“Fair enough. Yes I do. That is if you want to tell me.”

“Morocco.”

“Do you speak Arabic?”

The boy nodded.

“Read and write it?”

He nodded again.

“How’d you like a job?”

“Doing what?”

“Translating documents from Arabic to French.”

“Don’t you need someone to translate them into English?”

“I’ll teach you English as we go. For now, my French is pretty good. We can manage.”

“What does it pay?”

“Well, we’ll have to look up the going rate for half a translation,” Tom said smiling. “Do you need a place to stay?”

Christophe nodded.

“We’ll see what we can do for a few nights.”

Christophe looked wary.

“Look, I have a room going spare. It used to belong to my nephew. He moved out and it’s just going empty.”

Christophe finished his second croissant and gulped down the remainder of his coffee. Tom handed him a napkin. “You’ve got crumbs on your face.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then you say no. No harm done. Do you have a work permit?”

“Sure,” Christophe said, “it’s in my other jacket. At the cleaners.”

Tom smiled. “Okay, we can pay you in cash until your jacket gets back from the cleaners.”

They left the cafe and Christophe followed Tom into the office. Tom’s nine o’clock was in the waiting area.

“You’re late--”

“I know. This is Christophe,” Tom said to Rafe. “When Richard gets in, have him take his stuff to my place. He can have Richard’s old room.”

Rafe blinked in disbelief. “Isn’t that--?”

“Yes, his name is Christophe. He’s our new Arabic translator.”

“Translator? Since when do we need a trans--”

“I have all those Dubai contracts. I like to know what the hell is going on occasionally. Christophe speaks Arabic. I speak French. We get on like a house afire. And anyway, why am I justifying this to you?”

Rafe shook his head, confused.

“Have Richard take him to the house. Put his things away. Let him have a bath. Bring him back here. You and I will take him to lunch and buy him some new clothes.”

“Why me?”

“Because you brought Christophe to my attention.”

“Oh.”  
+++

Tom sent Rafe out clothes shopping with Christophe over lunch. He was left to cope with a two-hour, four-way conference call, at least three people speaking at any given time, after which he wanted a stiff drink or to be hit over the head with a board until unconscious. He opened the door to see if there were any further appointments. Rafe wasn’t at his desk. Christophe was sitting in Rafe’s chair in his smart new clothes and Adelle, one of the paralegals, was interrogating him using a combination of gestures and her two semesters of French. Christophe answered her questions politely. 

“Where’s Rafe?”

“He went out with Richard,” Adelle said.

“I’ve got all these notes from this conference call. Type them up and file them,” he said, handing her the legal pad.

“Where’d you find the new guy, boss?” Adelle whispered.

“Christophe is from Paris,” Tom said. 

“He’s fine as hell is what he is,” Adelle said and laughed.

“I think she likes you,” he said to Christophe. Christophe smiled and looked away, embarrassed. 

Richard and Rafe came in.

“Where’ve you two been?”

“The pub. I never got lunch. Richard needed a drink.”

“Yes, you’ve had an exhausting day of shopping. Why didn’t you take Christophe to the pub?”

“He doesn’t look old enough to drink,” Richard said.

“Christophe, this is my nephew Richard,” Tom said to Christophe in French. “He is a terrible person, but he is my sister’s child. What can I do?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Christophe said, grinning.

“Richard, in my office.”

He shut the door and Richard sat in a chair with his feet on the desk. “Uncle, are you sure about this kid? Having him in your house?”

Tom bumped Richard’s feet off the desk and sat down.

“Do you want to check him over for needle marks? Have him turn out his pockets?”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“He’s been in that park for weeks. I think if he were a junkie we’d have seen it. Anyway, I have a good feeling about him.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“You took him to the house. How’d he act?”

“Spooked. I don’t think he knows what’s going on. He seems a bit thick to me.”

“He doesn’t speak English. He’s plenty smart in French.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. When are you going to come by and get that stuff out of your room?”

“What stuff?”

“Magazines. Comic books. Your detritus.”

“Oh that junk. You can bin it. Or have do-- Christophe do it.”

“Thanks. Yeah, about that. If I ever hear anyone call him dog boy…”

“Alright, alright. Anything else?”

“Yes. Gregory’s coming down for his birthday next month. I thought we could have a bit of a do.”

“Won’t that be awkward with your house guest?”

“We’ll deal with that when we come to it. I want to know if you’ll be in town.”

“I’ll be there. Who else is coming?”

“I thought I’d invite your grandmother, your aunt Joan. Your sister of course.”

“What about Sarah?”

“Which one’s Sarah?”

“Alice’s friend.”

“Yeah, why not.”

“It ought to be an interesting evening.”

+++

In the car on the way home, Christophe fiddled with the vent for the air con.

“Richard and Rafe. They were nice to you?”

“Yes. Very nice. We didn’t say much. My English is not good.”

“It’s alright. You’ll learn.”

“Richard used to live with you?”

“Yes. He got a flat recently. The room’s been empty for a while.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Taking care of me?”

“You remind me of someone I used to know.”

Christophe nodded. 

“Thought I’d cook dinner. You don’t have any dietary restrictions?”

Christophe looked at him like he was daft. “I’ve been living in a park.”

“But if you could eat what you prefer? You eat meat? Pork?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Christophe said. 

Tom shrugged. They were quiet the rest of the way home.

Christophe studied the photographs in the sitting room while Tom made dinner. At some point he would explain to him who the people were. Meanwhile it was nice just to enjoy having someone else there.

It had been a long time since he’d cooked. It seemed not quite worth the effort somehow to bother with it only for himself. He often just made eggs or pot noodle. Not that spaghetti carbonara was hugely elaborate, but it always smelled great and as Tom pulled the sauce through the pasta, Christophe poked his head around the corner in anticipation.

Tom was hungrier than he’d imagined and he was glad he did the whole box of pasta, as Christophe ate two plates of spaghetti like Richard used to do. They sat on the couch and watched a documentary on emperor penguins as they ate. Tom put on the captioning in French for Christophe. “The male penguin shelters the egg in his pouch for weeks while the mother hunts for food,” the narrator said. In one scene, a father’s egg didn’t hatch. The father pushed helplessly at the egg, pleading with it in a raspy quack. Tom started to tear up a bit. It was silly, but he hid it from Christophe by getting up to fetch himself another glass of wine. When he came back, the same father was trying to steal another bird’s chick. Christophe was completely caught up in the action, riveted as the baby bird made it back to its mother just in the nick of time.

When the show was over, Tom suggested Christophe could read some of Richard’s comics to help with his English. Tom had some work to finish up in his study and he must have lost track of time because it was midnight when he made his way to his room, turning the lights off in the house. The place was too big. Richard and Gregory were always saying he should sell, get a flat closer to work where he wouldn’t need a car. It was alright in theory, he supposed, the sort of thing that would appeal to a young person. He liked the old place. It was full of memories and all his things were there. Perhaps that’s why Richard and Gregory wanted him to move. They thought it would be easier not to remember. They didn’t understand. Places and things could sometimes be a trigger, yes, but as often as not it would be a smell or a phrase of music. Sometimes he would just wake up and imagine Liz was in bed beside him, or he’d be reading in a chair and have the sensation that Grace was sitting in his lap. 

He saw light coming from his room. As he approached he heard breathing, even and low. He found Christophe asleep in his bed, sprawled on his stomach. He was naked except for a pair of clean, white underwear, bought earlier in the day. The snug white cotton stood out against the his leg, his skin the color of cafe au lait. _He’s fine as hell is what is he is._ He certainly was. Tom wished he’d heard back from Henry. Wished that he’d come through with his promise to see more of him, even once. It would make doing what he was about to do a lot easier.

“No, Christophe,” he said, shaking the boy awake. “You don’t sleep here. You sleep in Richard’s room.”

“I know,” Christophe said, yawning. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful.”

“That is not the arrangement.”

“You don’t like me? When you picked me up, I could have sworn that you liked me. The way you looked at me.”

“I didn’t pick you up. I got you breakfast.”

“You think you are the first man to ever get me breakfast?”

“Is that what you do? Go home with strange men?”

“Sometimes. But don’t tell me you didn’t know. I saw how you looked at me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“No. I know that look. One queer boy to another. Come home with me. I’ll feed you, bathe you. You added a new twist. New clothes and a job. No one has ever done that before, I’ll give you that.”

“I said you reminded me of someone, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you remind me of myself. I lived on the street for a long time. In London and in Italy.”

“Did you ever go home with men? Let them buy you breakfast?”

“Go to bed, Christophe. You remember, it’s down the hall. There are comic books and horrible magazines with girls in bikinis draped across motorcycles.”

“I like motorcycles.”

“Most boys your age do.”

“What is it Adelle called you?”

“Boss?”

“Yes. Can I call you boss?”

“I guess. Yes.”

“Goodnight boss,” Christophe said, shifting himself from the bed. He stood up and scratched -- or rather adjusted -- himself on the way out of the room. That gesture. Tom shook his head as he shut the door: it was such a teenage boy thing to do. Richard was right. Christophe was probably not old enough to drink.

Tom undressed, hung his trousers in the closet. He drew himself a bath. He needed a soak. He needed something else too, but he told himself he wasn’t going to get it. He picked up his phone. His last message from Henry, breaking their date for drinks after work, was two days prior. He typed the words, “You up?” but hesitated before hitting the send button. How desperate was he? This late, it could only be one thing. Still, Henry could be up. He might be lying there in his smooth sheets at the Beaumont, thinking of him. It wasn’t insane. It was a thing people did. The young people called it a “booty call.” He hit send.

He set the phone down on the sink and got into the tub. The water was too hot but he forced himself to lie down, let the heat suck all the tension out of his body, until he was lax and pink and floating in the water. He started to drift asleep. His phone stayed silent. The water cooled. He got out of the tub, dried himself, and went to bed. 

It had been madness, of course, to bring Christophe into his home. What could he have been thinking? Christophe could be...God knows, like everyone said. He wondered about what Christophe had said, _that look, one queer boy to another._ Was Christophe really like that? Queer: he disliked the word, it cut through him like the old panic, the old fears. Was he really, or was he just pretending because he knew what Tom would want? 

The next morning he got up and made a moka pot--another thing he hadn’t done since Richard moved out. Too much espresso made him shakey, turned his stomach. But one cup was just the thing. Christophe got up when he smelled the coffee.

“No croissants. But I’ve got some of these toaster things. Pastries.”

Christophe nodded, took a sip of his coffee. “Mon dieu, real coffee!”

“You like it?”

“I have not had real coffee since I came to England.”

“The coffee at the cafe is shocking, I know.”

“It is shocking everywhere in England. Where did you learn to make this?”

“I lived in Italy for a time.”

Christophe beamed appreciatively. “About last night, boss.”

“Look. It’s forgotten. No big deal.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I think I offended you.”

“No, no. Just don’t let it happen again.”

“It won’t, I promise. It was…”

“Just a misunderstanding. It happens.”

They sipped their coffee, not speaking. Tom read the paper. Christophe polished off his breakfast and a couple extra pastries before they headed into work.

+++

He met his friend Denise Audley for lunch at the falafel stand near the park. It was a warm day for November and they sat outside, jackets unzipped, eating from paper trays. Denise was high up in community relations for the Metropolitan Police. He’d known her since she was just out of school, doing leg work for Wolsey.

“When’s Wolsey coming back?”

“I don’t know. He’s doing better. I think he’s enjoying the break, actually.”

“Good for him. He’s earned it. Maybe he should just retire.”

“I hope not. We’ve got a lot on at the moment. I’m barely keeping up.”

“You’ll have to let go eventually, Tom.”

“I know. I’m hoping for a phased retirement.”

“Phased retirement? That sounds like working to me.”

“It is. Working until you gradually stop.”

“I ran that surname and description you gave to me through the system.”

“And?”

“Nothing. Here or in France.”

“Thanks for trying.”

“What’s this about?”

“Personal thing. Following up on a hunch.”

“It have anything to do with that nice looking young man I saw when I came to your office? The one that has all the paralegals hovering around his desk?”

“Maybe. Look, if I tell you this, it has to be strictly between you and me. Friend to friend.”

“How about we discuss things hypothetically?”

“Fine. Hypothetically. What becomes of an alien who has no papers? No rap sheet, no record. And no paper trail.”

“That’s bad. No paper at all?”

“Nothing. I was almost hoping you’d come up with something small in the system: ASBO, anything, just to have some verification, a place to start.”

“If he had papers he would be detained for a while, but we could send him back where he came from. Slap him on the wrist, say ‘Don’t come back without proper visa’. But no papers...that does not end well.”

“Detention?”

“Yes. And worse, the duration can be indefinite. Like being in prison and not being charged.”

“That can’t be right. That has to violate human rights rules. Something.”

“No legal basis for it, but no precedent against it either. The end result is limbo.”

“My God.”

“Tom, I’ve got to warn you. If you have someone working for you who doesn’t have papers... Well, there’s half a dozen laws you’re breaking, just off the top of my head.”

“This is hypothetical, remember.”

“Alright, alright.”

“How’s Alex? I heard he got made detective.”

“He did. He’s doing great. Busy, though. How’s Gregory?”

“Good. He turns 21 later this month. Can you believe it?”

“No. We are getting old. Tom, look, if you want another kid, why don’t you adopt? I know this program for single adults, adopting teens. Shelters are full of kids who could use a home.”

“I know. It’s not that. I don’t want another kid, Denise. I really don’t. I just want to help one particular kid. I mean in theory.”

“This particular kid, hypothetical though he may be, is bound to be trouble. I see this a lot in my job. People like you want to help--”

“What do you mean, people like me? Lawyers? Men in their late forties? What?”

“You know what I mean. White savior syndrome. I’ve seen it before.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s not like that. I saw a way to help someone. It seemed simple. In theory.”

“It’s never simple. Look, do yourself a favor and find out from the kid where his parents are. Contact them. Did you ever stop to think that your little project is someone else’s child? They might be out there worried sick. Going out of their minds. If it were Gregory…”

“I know. I know. I’d want to be told. But he won’t talk about it. And I haven’t pushed. I’m afraid I’ll spook him.”

“I doubt it. He’s got things mighty sweet right now.”

“On the surface, maybe. But, Denise, I mean-- think of it. It must have been pretty bad. Whatever happened to him, to put him on the road like that.”

“Or he could have had a row with his folks. Made a bad choice or fallen in with the wrong people. Been on the run from the cops. You don’t know.”

Tom sighed and wadded up his napkin. “Thanks for listening. You’ve been a help.”

“I didn’t hear a thing. But you’re welcome. Call me again if you ever want to not talk about something.”

+++

That night at dinner, Tom told Christophe that he had to get his NHS card. 

“I don’t have any i.d., Boss. I told you.”

“I know. We’re going to need to get you some.”

“But how? Without i.d. they won’t give me a card.”

“I need an address, phone number, something to go on. Then I’ll worry about the NHS.” 

Christophe wrote down a name and a street address in Paris. 

Tom had bought a hamper for Mercy two Christmases ago from a company that delivered anywhere in the world. He had a bottle of champagne sent to Mrs. Villaume, with a note which read: Hi Ma: Just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, Christophe. It wasn’t much but it was a start. Opening the lines of communication. 

+++

Tom heard laughter outside his office one day and opened the door. Rafe, Adelle, and Christophe were talking about _The British Bakeoff_ again. 

“Say it, please,” Adelle said.

“No,” Christophe said, smiling.

“Please. It was great. Say it,” Rafe said.

“Alright,” Christophe said. “Sue PEARkins.”

“Sue PEARkins,” Adelle repeated. “I’m dying. He’s so cute. Sue PEARkins.”

No one said Sue Perkins’s name the correct way after that. It was Sue PEARkins. 

Christophe had been binge watching the _Bake Off._ He was no longer using subtitles. His English was coming on fast. So was his baking. He asked Tom one day where he came down on egg whites. Tom didn’t know how to answer. Christophe explained a lot of people thought you should beat them to stiff peaks. Others said they should be beaten only until they were just fluffy and held their shape. Once more Tom explained that he really had no opinion on egg whites.

Tom hired a caterer for Gregory’s birthday. Christophe asked if he would be doing the baking. Tom said probably not, but Christophe started working on it anyway, saying that they needed to do some practice cakes before the party. Tom secretly ordered a cake from the bakery just in case. The first test cake wasn’t so great. They ate it anyway, but it was kind of soggy in places. The second cake was better. The third, a chocolate prune cake, was good enough that Tom cancelled the one from the bakery.

This is what his evenings had come to: making cakes with his not-exactly-adopted, mostly- grown Adonis son. He hadn’t heard back from Henry Tudor. 

+++

They had good weather for Gregory’s birthday and he had a full house. Liz’s mother, Mercy, was in the guest room. Liz’s sister, Joan, was in his room. (He was on the fold out sofa bed in the study). Richard came with his new girlfriend. Alice and Sarah came and Mercy either pretended not to notice they were a couple or decided to be fine with it. Tom wondered what Mercy would think if she knew about him.

Gregory came down from Cambridge the night before. Explaining Christophe to Gregory was not as awkward as Tom had feared.

“My father doesn’t like to be on his own,” Gregory said to Christophe after they had shaken hands.

“He is like the penguin with the empty pouch,” Christophe said. Gregory looked confused until Tom explained about the nature documentary. 

They had dinner and ate the cake. Tom made coffee and everyone said how great everything was and what a lovely evening it had been.

Tom and Joan stayed up talking after everyone had gone to bed. They sat in the snug that had once been Grace’s room, chatting about the redecorating and how it had been a necessary step for healing. Tom didn’t feel especially healed at the moment, not when talking to Joan. She wasn’t Liz, but sometimes there was something in her expression, a way of looking into a person. A game of sardines two Christmases after the accident had ended with Tom and Joan in a cupboard with their tongues down one another’s throats. Since then they had avoided being alone together. Tom poured a drop of whiskey into their coffees. Joan rearranged herself on the sofa and moved a bit closer to him.

“When are you going to get rid of that husband of yours?” Tom asked.

“Oh, being direct are we?”

“I thought I might try it. Well?”

“Oh, John needs me. He wouldn’t know what to do without me.”

“You haven’t been to a family gathering together in years.”

“Oh that. He can’t stand these things. And I always feel anxious, worrying whether he’s having a good time. ” 

“Doesn’t seem fair to you.”

“You trying to drum up business?”

“I’m not that kind of lawyer. But I know some very good ones that do that sort of thing. Could have you out of that marriage with your own income, maybe even the house.”

Joan sipped her coffee. She looked skeptical.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything. It’s just that I’ve observed over the years that you seem to be quite independent. You seem content on your own.”

“Tom. You’re my brother-in-law and I love you, but I think you should mind your own damn business.” 

“Fair enough. I should. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I know you mean well.”

“I do. And by the way, technically speaking, we’re not related any more.”

“I suppose not. It never occurred to me,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “Well, that’s a lie. It occurred to me once. In your airing cupboard, I think it was.”

“Now who’s being direct?”

“It’s been dangling there,” she gestured to the space between them, “all night. For years, really.” Joan brushed Tom’s arm with her hand. He remembered the kiss in the cupboard, the smell of clean laundry hanging around them and the heat pouring off the immersion. 

“I’ve met someone,” he said, taking her hand in his.

Joan smiled a tight smile and said, “Really, Oh Tom. That’s lovely. Why ever didn’t you invite her to Gregory’s do?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. I think it might have fizzled out already. But my point was, I guess, that until I really know it’s over, I want to avoid further entanglements.”

Joan kept smiling but she looked unhappy. He was sorry he had said anything. He might have gotten his signals crossed. She might not have meant anything at all by touching his arm, bringing up the airing cupboard. He felt his phone vibrating in his trouser pocket. He pulled it out and switched it off. It had been Henry Tudor calling. It was nearly midnight. It could only be one thing. 

“Was that her?” Joan said and leaned forward to look at his phone.

“No, no. Nothing half so exciting. Just a work thing. A reminder about an appointment tomorrow. My assistant Rafe is always setting alarms to remind me of appointments,” he rambled.

Joan looked like she didn’t believe a word of it, but she changed the subject to Gregory. It was sporting of her. Tom made the effort to meet her half-way in the conversation and was quite absorbed, enough so that when the front door bell rang, he was completely thrown.

“Who on earth?” he said, rising from the sofa. The doorbell rang again as he was on his way, and by the time he got to the front door Gregory and Mercy were there, waiting to see what was going on.

He looked through the peep hole. It was Henry Tudor’s driver, Brereton. He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door before his nosy relatives could see what was happening.

“I’ve been sent to collect you, Mr. Cromwell. Mr. Tudor said he tried to ring you.” 

He asked Brereton to wait a minute while he grabbed his rain coat. Back inside, Alice and Joan had joined the little gathering in the hallway. 

“Go back to bed everyone. It’s work. An emergency with a client. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Nothing to worry about.”

“I thought you weren’t that sort of lawyer,” Joan said.

“What sort?”

“The running about in the middle of the night sort.”

“Every once in awhile it comes up.” 

“I don’t ever remember it happening when I lived here,” Gregory said.

“Nor I,” said Alice.

“Fine. Look. It’s very unusual. But trust me. It happens. I’ll be back soon. Just go back to bed.”

He managed to herd the yawning bunch back upstairs. Joan was the last to leave, giving him a knowing smile. “I won’t wait up.”

+++

Tom slid into the back seat of Henry’s silver Jaguar. He looked out at the darkened houses, the eerie blue tele light shining out from upper windows, as the car smoothed down his lane and out onto the high street. His heart shifted with the car, a higher gear, adrenaline pulsing through him. A wide smooth road carried him to Henry. He loved that feeling of leaving, moving out, looking forward. When he’d worked for the Portinari boys, going for a ride might mean not coming back. And then there were rides that some of the street boys took with their “daddies,” moving out in sleek cars in the night. And he had taken those rides sometimes when he was cold enough and hungry enough or sometimes just wanted to go. All this, when he was a boy not much older than Christophe. Not that Christophe was any age he could determine. His mother had signed for the bottle and though he’d left his phone number on the card, he hadn’t heard back from her. She hadn’t filed a missing persons with the police in Paris. She wasn’t together enough to manage it, or she didn’t care. Either way it wasn’t what Christophe needed in his life. Somehow having Christophe there at home, waiting with the rest, made the whole ride seem possible. Like it was really happening and wasn’t just a moment from a fantasy.

They passed a late night chemists as they turned into the city. Tom had failed in the intervening weeks since his night with Henry to get supplies laid in. He could have done it online, like decent people, but now here he was -- a desperate old man -- literally in a rain coat. He leaned over the seat and asked Brereton to stop. “For fags.” 

Inside the chemists there were a couple of teenage girls buying condoms, whispering, laughing. He nearly lost his bottle. But no, he was an adult. He had just as much right to be here as anyone. He grabbed what he needed as quickly as he could, though he had to edge past them to get to the lube. A coward dies a thousand deaths, but none quite like having to edge past teenage girls to get to the lube. The chemist’s was an old, dusty place. What he wouldn’t give for an automatic check out, though he usually hated those things. The cashier was a man in his sixties, a fringe of tight white curls circling a brown bald head like a halo, and as Tom approached the counter, he suddenly felt he needed some other items for camouflage. As if buying lube and condoms after midnight while a car waits on the corner for you could somehow be anything other than what it looked like. He grabbed a lighter and asked the cashier for a pack of silk cuts. 

“Silver or king size?” the cashier asked.

Tom panicked. He had not bought fags in twenty years. There had been only one kind of silk cuts then. 

“Silver” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words “king size” for some reason.

+++

The lobby of the hotel was dim and glittering. A man about Tom’s age was sitting with a young lady on a sofa, his hand on her knee. It might have been a better class of hotel, and a better class of sofa, but at this time of night it could only be one thing. Tom waited for the lift, feeling that the hotel clerk was onto him though he was half asleep behind the desk, that the man and his young lady were on to him. He was sure Brereton was no fool either. The cashier had not been thrown off by the camouflage. His whole family had seen him leave for this booty call. The lift came. He tried to slow his racing heart by breathing slowly, clearing his mind.

He knocked on the door of Henry’s suite. When he’d thought of Henry in the intervening weeks since they were last together, Tom had always pictured Henry in the snug white shirt and trousers, hIs top two buttons undone and the smooth fabric straining ever so slightly at his pectoral muscles around the third button. Henry answered the door in his suit jacket and tie. 

“Tom. Thank God, you’re here. I’m going out of my mind.”

Tom stepped into the suite and looked around. Something wasn’t right: the lights were full on. Henry raked his hand through his hair. Christ. It was difficult to concentrate on what Henry was saying with that ginger hair cascading down over his brow. It had an almost golden hue in the bright light of the suite.

“She’s locked herself in the bathroom and won’t come out. I’m scared she might do herself an injury.”

Tom shook his head, puzzled, his heart plummeting like a rock chucked off a building. “She?”

“Mary Shelton. She arrived like this. I swear, she was-- I don’t know. High, I suppose, but seemed okay. You know. She went in there an hour and a half ago and I haven’t heard a peep since. I’m thinking of breaking the door down. What do you advise?”

Tom rocked on his heels, blinking. “You asked me up here to advise you?”

“I knew you’d know what to do. Please, Tom. I’m really scared. What if she’s overdosed or something?”

Tom set the plastic carrier bag from the pharmacy down on the desk. He took off his coat and handed it to Henry. In that act, he transferred Henry in his mind from his lover, from this glamourous thing that he wanted--oh how he had wanted--to just any other person, to a man who held his coat. That is how he would think of Henry. That is how he’d get through this.

“Mary,” he said in his gentlest voice to the door of the bathroom. “It’s Tom Cromwell. You remember me, yeah?”

He listened, straining. He thought he heard water running. He tried again. He heard the tap squeak and the sound of water sloshing, like someone standing up in a bath.

“Mary. Can you hear me? You alright in there, love?”

More sounds of water, then a long pause and a voice, faint but near to the door, “Yeah. I can hear you. Who are you again?”

“Tom. Tom Cromwell. A friend of Henry’s. His-- His solicitor actually,” and when he said it, he knew it was true. It was over with Henry. He could be Tom’s client now. There would never be any temptation.

“Oh yeah, yeah. I remember. Hi, Tom Cromwell.”

“Hi. Listen, Mary. You don’t have to do anything. But can you just say whether you’re alright. You’re not hurt or anything?” He looked at Henry who was holding his breath.

“I’m fine, Tom. Yeah, I just... I dunno. I think I fell asleep, yeah. In the bath.” Henry exhaled, sighed, and went into the sitting room. Tom heard him uncork a bottle, splash a drink into a glass.

“Oh yes, that happens to me sometimes,” Tom said to the door. “It’s nice, isn’t it, in the bath.”

“Yes. It is. I’ll be out in a bit, Tom.”

“Alright, love. No rush. Just wanted to make sure you were alright in there.”

He heard the water being let out of the tub.

He walked through to Henry, “I think she’s coming out.”

Henry set his drink down and charged toward Tom. A moment later he felt Henry Tudor’s arms around him, hugging him, crushing him. “I knew you could do it,” Henry said into his shoulder. ”I said to myself, ‘I bet Tom can fix this.’ And I was right. I always know the best people to help in a crisis.”

Tom stood inert, not hugging back, waiting for the moment to pass. Henry pulled back from the hug, looked him in the eye.

“What’s wrong?”

Tom forced himself to look away, focused on Henry’s glass on the coffee table. “Why didn’t you call? Ever? Till tonight?”

“I wanted to, Tom. Well, things have gotten very complicated and it just was never the right time. I got your text, the last one you sent. I got it the next morning. And it didn’t seem fair on you to ask you to come over then. I mean you probably were at work.”

“I was. But I would have come.” The words pressed out of him, leaving his lungs empty, his throat dry. “Can I have a drink, please, Henry? You owe me that much at least.”

“Sure, sure Tom. I’m afraid all I’ve got is gin. We were drinking G and Ts and the T ran out. So did the ice.”

He winced at the thought of neat, warm gin. “On second thought. I’ll just have some water.”

Henry searched the mini bar looking for a bottle of water. Handed one to Tom. The bathroom door opened and Mary stepped into the sitting room in one of Henry’s fluffy white bathrobes. Henry rushed over to her while Tom sat down on the couch and sipped his water, picking at the paper label on the bottle. 

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Henry said, taking the sleeve of her robe in his hands. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“I’m fine, Henry,” she said and pulled herself from his grasp. “Tom, I wonder if you might ring for a taxi for me. I think it’s time I got home.”

“I can have Brereton drive you,” Henry said.

“I don’t want Brereton to drive me. He must have gone home by now, anyway.”

“Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”

“Tom, will you do that?”

“Sure. I’m glad you feel better,” Tom said and went to the desk to phone the concierge. Mary disappeared back into the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later in her party dress and heels, her make-up tidied, and the only evidence of the adventure a few damp hairs around her face and at the nape of her neck. 

The concierge rang up a few moments later saying the taxi was ready. Mary collected her purse from Henry’s bedroom and, on her way out the door, stopped and touched Tom’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for your help, Tom. It was nice to meet you again.”

Henry followed her to the door. Tom heard muffled discussion and a brief kiss good-bye. He finished his water and stood to go.

“Tom, sit. I’ll ring down to the concierge for some ice and tonic,” Henry said, picking up the phone.

“I’m not really thirsty anymore.” Tom started to walk toward the door, looking for his coat.

“Then stay and we’ll talk. We’ll have a drink and talk.” 

“I don’t want to talk, Henry,” Tom said, spotting his coat in the closet.

“What do you want then, Tom?”

“To go home. Good night, Henry. You’ll get my bill for this evening. It will include my standard retainer.”

“I thought you couldn’t be my brief, because of what happened?”

“Nothing ever happened as far as I’m concerned. Do me a favor and delete my texts, will you?”

Henry stepped in front of Tom as he passed by, took hold of his arm. “Tom, wait. Don’t leave it like this.” Tom broke free and grabbed the plastic carrier bag which was still sitting on the desk. 

“I’ll take that,” Tom said.

“No, wait,” Henry said, snatching at the bag. Its contents spilled out on the desk. Henry looked at them a moment and then up at Tom, a smirk on his face. “That’s quite a night you had planned for us. I’ll be sorry to have missed it.”

“Yeah, well you can keep it. It’s everything you need to go fuck yourself.”

The smirk faded for a moment and Tom thought Henry might hit him, but he started to laugh: a breathless, squint-eyed giggle. Tom held his composure for a moment, then he joined in.

“Please stay, Tom. I’m serious. I don’t want you to go. I know you got the wrong end of the stick, but it was a nice idea.”

Tom swung his coat over his arm, ready to leave. He began tidying the items back into the bag to give himself something to do. He felt Henry’s hand, heavy on his shoulder.

“You were terrific tonight, Tom,” Henry said softly. “You were. I’ve never seen anything like the way you handled Mary. You were so calm and gentle. And yet, authoritative. Like dealing with a child, but you were never patronizing. It was incredible.”

Tom knew he should go. Knew he shouldn’t have his head turned like this. But he couldn’t help it. Tom wanted to stay there and bask in his approval. It was almost like love.

He set his coat down on the back of the chair, turned back slowly, deliberately, to Henry, giving himself time to change his mind. Henry looked anxious and even if it was a put-on, even if he didn’t care one way or the other, Tom felt the urge to brush the hair from Henry’s forehead. He reached up and Henry didn’t move as he touched his hair. Reaching back, he found the base of Henry’s skull and pressed there, pulling him down into a kiss. And it was the same as it was before, the same swoony feeling, like his legs were about to go underneath him, collapsing like a folding chair. He wanted to be held--or carried--by this man. Fucked too. The way he had wanted before but couldn’t ask a way that he was sure it had never occurred to Henry Tudor that someone would want to be fucked. He was going to have to say the words. 

“Henry, do you think you can lift me?”

“You mean pick you up? ” Henry said, and he stooped over and caught one hand behind Tom’s knees and the other beneath his shoulder and swept him off his feet. “Like this?” He grinned like a child. 

Tom nodded. Oh, he felt so ridiculous and yet light and woozy. He said in his calmest, most authoritative voice, as if giving advice through a bathroom door: “Yes. That’s perfect. Can you carry me to the bed?”

Henry started to walk toward the bedroom. Tom looked back at himself in the mirror that hung above the desk. Saw himself in Henry’s arms, receding, getting smaller, until they passed through out of the light, into the other room.

+++

There was nothing in his past to prepare Tom for the feel of Henry’s shoulders under his palms, the muscle under soft skin, the jutting shoulder blades, the long plane of his back settling down into the valley of his arse. He wanted to lie there, pushed down under the sheer size and weight of him, and explore the landscape of him, but things must progress and so Tom worked Henry’s cock with the lube until it was glowing, watched dazzled as Henry snapped on the condom, lying back, rolling his hips under, pulling his legs back and high, pushing him in deeper. Such a minute distance to travel in the grand scheme. Such a short, short time. He exhaled and held on, relaxing as much as he could. There were things he thought and things he said aloud and sometimes the two were mixed and he wasn’t quite sure what he’d said. It was that sort of a night.

+++

The sun was coming up by the time he caught a taxi home. He had the driver stop at Tesco so he could pick up a few things for breakfast. He went straight into the kitchen, tied on an apron, began cracking eggs and frying bacon. He made a moka pot and the smell of it brought Christophe to the kitchen.

“You’re back, boss.”

“I am.”

“I heard you go out. Good night?”

“Yes. It took a bit longer than I thought. But it turned out alright in the end.”

“I’m glad. Do you mind if I pour myself some coffee?”

“No, go ahead, please. Pour me one while you’re at it, if you please.”

“Sure, boss.”

Tom was humming something. A song that had been playing at Tesco, that he hadn’t been able to place. Suddenly it came to him: “Rock with You.” Michael Jackson. He set down his spatula and picked up his coffee, took a deep, slow sip, let it wash across his nervous system. Glorious.

“Christophe, there’s something I want to tell you. You were right about me. I am queer, as you put it.”

Christophe was quiet.

“This doesn’t make you uncomfortable, does it? Talking about this?”

“No, no, boss.” Christophe looked around the kitchen, studying the stand mixer as if for the first time.

“It doesn’t change anything between us. I just wanted you to know you were right about me.”

“OK, boss.”

Joan came down the stairs. “Now that’s what I like to see. A man who knows his way round a kitchen.”

“Joanie! Pull up a stool,” Tom said, pouring a cup of coffee for her.

“You’re in a good mood. You really must tell us who this mystery woman is.”

“Yes, boss, you must tell us who _she_ is.”

Tom shot him a look. Too much had been said already. He wouldn’t come out all at once to everyone. Someday, maybe, some of them, but for now Alice and Sarah had shared a room and Mercy was still alive. Baby steps 

Tom picked up his spatula and went back to the stove. “Who’s for breakfast?” he called over his shoulder. 

 

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Onstraysod for editing/beta help. *repeats to self* UNTIL, UNTIL...


End file.
